Aurealis #77

By Michael Pryor (Editor)

The first issue in Aurealis' 25th year, Aurealis #77 is a feast of the eerie, the unsettling and the other side of ordinary. 'Like a Boojum' by Simon Petrie takes us to a world where the exotic is familiar and the familiar is not to be trusted. 'The Death of Glinda, the Good Witch' by Rebecca-Anne C Do Rozario probes and questions until reality itself is in question. Lachlan Walter's exploration of the often troubling amalgamation of SF movies and Western movies is illuminating and fun, while our regular roll-out of reviews has some important pointers to good SpecFic reading. Aurealis - not to be missed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chimaera Publications
• Release date: Feb 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781922031334

Book preview

AUREALIS #77

Australian Fantasy & Science Fiction

Edited by Michael Pryor

Published by Chimaera Publications at Smashwords

Copyright of this compilation Chimaera Publications 2015

Copyright on each story remains with the contributor.

EPUB version ISBN 978-1-922031-33-4

ISSN 2200-307X (electronic)

CHIMAERA PUBLICATIONS

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Hard copy back issues of Aurealis can be obtained from the Aurealis website:

www.aurealis.com.au

Contents

From the Cloud—Michael Pryor

The Death of Glinda, the Good Witch—Rebecca-Anne C Do Rozario

Like a Boojum—Simon Petrie

From the Archives: SF’s Sacred Cows—1984—Stephen Higgins

Science-Fiction Westerns and End of the World Frontiers—Lachlan Walter

Reviews

Next Issue

Credits

From the Cloud

Michael Pryor

With Australia Day recently gone by, it prompts us to consider of what SF stories are still to be inspired by the Lucky Country. Here are some juicy possibilities we’re waiting for—or have we simply missed them?

Colonialisation and exploitation. Will the brutality and oppression of native inhabitants by external settlers be replayed on other worlds, or have we learned from the past?

Establishing a colony in a distant, exotic land. The experiences of our First Fleet and the early settlers provide many fascinating possibilities for SF stories. The personalities, the conflicts, the misunderstandings are a fertile field waiting to be sewn with an SF sensibility.

Ecological disasters through deliberate and accidental introduction of non-native species. If rabbits can ruin a continent, what could Terran species do to entirely new worlds?

Identity as part of empire. How does a far-flung colony develop a sense of independence while still remaining part of a widespread imperium? As for Australia and the British Empire, perhaps for galaxy-spanning empires?

The Colonial Abroad. Transfer an Edwardian Australian’s visit to the mother country to an SF context. Misunderstandings, under-estimations and questions of national pride are all waiting to be explored. Or perhaps a modern take? The 1960s experience of Australians fleeing a stultifying backward homeland to enliven a straitlaced mother country? Can we have an SF equivalent of Germaine Greer? Clive James? Barry Humphreys?

Exploration where the explorers are ignorant or dismissive of local conditions. Burke and Wills on an alien planet, anyone?

The past is often a rich vein to mine when it comes to SF stories. Australia’s past is no exception.

Back to Contents

The Death of Glinda, the Good Witch

Rebecca-Anne C Do Rozario

The room was beleaguered by draughts that the hundred patchworked, sand-filled sausage dogs couldn’t hold back. The air in the room was ripe, the mingled scents of eucalyptus and blue cheese dominating. Shadows in the corners went clickety clack, clickety clack and sometimes snip snip in a slow liturgy that underscored the loud cheerful voices from the television. A row of flowerpots held dead, dried poppies, their heads ready to burst with seed.

‘Be a good witch now. Sit up straight for your medicine,’ said the woman in the white uniform, a metal zip running all the way down its front. Old Mr Tok was given to lewd whispers about that zip.

Glinda reclined upon a ratty armchair under an afghan of rainbow coloured granny squares. She was in the middle of a turgid novel. It was about pig-tailed teenagers and toothless vampires in skinny jeans. She paused at ‘peaceful, pale perfection of his exquisite profile’ and rolled her eyes for the umpty-umpth time. Back at orientation, years ago, she’d fervently declined the invitation to join water aerobics. She would, she said, melt if made to gyrate in swimsuit and ear plugs. From that moment, the staff had joyously referred to her as ‘the witch’, distinguishing her from the ‘biddies’ and ‘bats’.

Glinda was old in body now. Glinda’s red gold hair had faded to yellow gold, then silver and finally platinum. She wore it piled up on the top of her head, one lock rebelliously dyed magenta. Told off by the laundry lady for the pink stained towels buried the hamper, she’d felt satisfaction in her sartorial mutiny. The bright curl strayed over her forehead, brushing the black cat-eye frames of her bifocal glasses. No longer ageless, her face had wrinkled like freshly laundered, snow white sheets after a good night’s sleep. Her lips had narrowed and her eyes grown rheumy. Her joints cricked and cracked and she groaned and farted with a reckless kind of humour.

The woman in the white uniform hadn’t moved on, but was standing in front of her now. She was a kind woman. That was the trouble. The kind ones